


Right

by sallyamongpoison



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, written for prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9782648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyamongpoison/pseuds/sallyamongpoison
Summary: In which during Samson's recovery from red lyrium and being under Cullen's care, they both contemplate the right thing to do.Written for the (anonymous) prompt: Samson is incredibly clingy during the first few weeks of lyrium withdrawal and seeks Cullen out all across Skyhold to crawl into his arms, no matter what he's doing.





	

He should have known what he was getting into. Secretly, perhaps he did. Perhaps that had been the reason why he’d agreed to it. More than that, maybe that had been the reason why he’d been the one to suggest it. This hadn’t been Trevelyan’s idea, his had been to simply put Samson’s head on a pike and put an end to it there. At his most generous he would have allowed Dagna to take him, turn him into some kind of prisoner and an experiment to boot, and then kill him once a solution had been reached. Somewhere deep down, and despite the anger and hatred he felt, Cullen couldn’t let that happen. It wouldn’t be right, even if he didn’t know what ‘right’ really was when it came to Samson.

It was awkward. He did know that much. There was a lot of silence, a lot of stoic time where he just stood there and watched. He watched as the healers did what they could even when it was obvious the other man wasn’t going to cooperate with them. At one point he’d even barked out in frustration to Samson, though it wasn’t exactly for the healers’ benefit. He just wanted the man to let them  _ help _ . Help them at least make sure he wasn’t about to drop dead immediately.

_ Stop fucking fighting, man. Stop. Just...stop. _

The last word hadn’t been in anger. It was hardly frustration either. It was...Cullen was begging him. It caught in his throat like a stone, and he’d choked it out. That had been what made Samson relent, made him sit back in that same stoic silence and stubbornness that Cullen had known for years. It wasn’t the anger, wasn’t the hatred, but the pain in his voice.  _ That _ had been what made him listen and pay attention.

What was surprising, even to Cullen, was how much he meant it. He’d tried to swallow down that pain and replace it with anger and a need to do more. That had been what he’d always done since pain wasn’t an emotion that really got anything accomplished. Anger and hatred could be energy put into something else that made him  _ do _ something. Hurt and pain, betrayal, had never served him well. For as hard as he tried he’d never been able to do something useful with that. So he hid it. Only now, now with Samson’s eyes on him in the dim light, did he realize it had finally been for something. 

But then...Samson had been  _ his _ . Cullen had known that was going to be the case, but he hadn’t exactly been prepared for it. Back then, back in Kirkwall, Samson had been the one to take care of  _ him _ , not the other way around. And he had to ask himself the question that he’d never thought he have to ask: was he ready for this? Could he  _ do _ it?

He had the responsibility of the Inquisition’s army already, but in so many ways that didn’t compare at all to having Samson’s life in his hands. That was far more frightening.

As always, though, like he’d done since he was a green kid in Kinloch and after when anger and hatred had burned in his heart and soul...Cullen pushed forward. Despite all the hurt and pain and anger he felt toward the man who had done so much for him and then so much  _ to _ him, he did what he had to do because it was the  _ right _ thing to do. It felt right to be the one who sat by Samson’s sick bed and watched him struggle to sleep and eat. It felt right to be the one who caught the sidelong glances from runners and messengers who came into his office. It felt right to have to defend his choice to Trevelyan and Cassandra. 

Cullen didn’t know what the ‘right’ thing to do was when it came to Samson, but he knew what  _ felt _ right.

\--

It was as if he were burning alive. Really, he almost wished he were. At least then there would be something to show for all this pain and suffering he felt fucking  _ constantly _ . The pain was always there, the black was always at the edges of his vision, and there wasn’t enough water in all of Skyhold to soothe his parched throat. He could feel the hum, feel it singing inside him like nothing he’d ever felt in his life, and and it was a madness he’d never known. All that time in the Gallows begging for coin or Dust seemed like a picnic by comparison. At the time it had been the worst thing, the worst time in his life, but at least then it had been  _ his _ life.

Now? This wasn’t a life, nor was it really his. Samson hadn’t had a life of his own since Corypheus had come to him, gave him power immeasurable, but he’d not been his own man. That brief time outside the Order, dark as it was, had been the first time he’d been his own person. A slave to the Order, then a pawn for Corypheus. Maybe it was justice. And now, even after being taken from that, he still wasn’t his own.

He was Cullen’s. Cullen  _ fucking _ Rutherford held his life in his hands and looked at him with those big, sad eyes like he was the one who felt like he was dying. Maybe he did. The man didn’t look like he had the last time Samson saw him, looked both more haggard but healthier at the same time. Before he’d been smaller, though he burned bright with lyrium, now there was something else that made him light up. It made him brighter than he’d ever been, better, and though Samson wanted to growl at him to stop fussing he couldn’t help but be soothed by that light.

The pain was constant. It kept him from sleeping, kept him from eating, kept him from thinking. There wasn’t anything but the pain. It was a companion like no other. The song, the one that sang in his blood and in his heart, made him wish for death. It made him weak and ill, wrecked his body, but despite it all he did have something. He had a warm hand in his on occasion. He curled into it, sought out the source of the warmth until it was pressed against his side so he could bury his face in it. It was a breathing, living thing. 

It was Cullen. Always Cullen. Cullen with concern in his eyes. Cullen who let him curl in close until the tremors eased or the pounding of his heart slowed. 

Slowly, after more than a few failed attempts, he could be up on his own. It didn’t help the pain, sometimes made it worse, but he could at least do more than lie in bed and pray for death. He could do small, seemingly insignificant things, that gave his mind something to focus on. It was always Cullen who gave him those things. They were small at first, but soon he found he could be upright for longer and manage. Not to say that it didn’t still knock him completely at times, but it was better than before.

Sleeping was still the hardest. He lay in his bed, on his cot, and in the darkness the song grew louder in his ears. It thrummed with every beat of his heart. It sang in his veins. It was so loud that he couldn’t think over it. The song whispered to him, made him want the one thing he couldn’t have. He rolled over, tossed and turned, and squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that they ached. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. At least, nothing on his own helped.

Like before, many years ago when he hadn’t been his own man either, there was only one thing that helped. Back then it was something mutual. Nightmares on either end that were only quieted in the dark with warm hands resting on his belly and a strong chest at his back. They breathed together, Cullen and Samson did, and it was that warmth and safety and comfort that he longer for now. So he found himself in Cullen’s office, a sweating and shaking mess, and watched Cullen watch him for a long moment from behind the desk that Cullen seemed to often use as a replacement for a shield.

They’d gone to bed together. It was so much like old times that it hurt in his heart. They lay in Cullen’s larger bed with thick furs and blankets piled around them, and Samson had that strong chest at his back and arms draped over him to keep the nightmares and the song at bay. It felt right. Maybe it wasn’t right, but it felt right. Maybe none of this was right, but it quieted the worst of things. Maybe that’s what made it right.

\--

He’d walked in on Samson and felt like he’d seen the man at his most vulnerable. The man wasn’t naked, though Cullen knew the man’s body as well as he knew his own. Nakedness wasn’t shameful, Samson’s especially (though he’d never say it aloud to anyone but the man himself, maybe), but this was something altogether different. Cullen had lived in barracks with dozens of men. Had he walked in on the man changing he would have felt less awkward.

Samson hunched over the edge of his cot, hands clapped over his ears, and rocking back and forth was something else. It was a vulnerability that Cullen knew well. It was the closing in of the song and the crushing weight of the pain. He couldn’t watch it. So he’d turned tail and run. He’d gone out to the training yard and spent an hour pushing the recruits to be better. He yelled. He did whatever he could to escape that feeling of vulnerability. Cullen didn’t want it. He didn’t want it for himself, and he didn’t want it for...Raleigh. He didn’t want it for Raleigh.

Then he’d shown up there. He’d shown up with red, wet eyes and skin the color of parchment. He’d shown up there, and in a moment he was pulling off his tunic and picking up a practice sword. Raleigh’s hands were shaking so hard he could hardly hold it, but he turned to one of the recruits and gestured for him to come over.

_ You. Fight me. _

It was a simple command given in a shaking voice, but a command nonetheless. And they fought. Cullen wasn’t sure if the recruit went easy on him because of the shaking and the state of his body, but Samson surely gave it everything he had. He parried, thrust, slashed, and ran forward until he was panting and hunched over. The raw and red scars across his chest stood out in the sunlight, gleamed under a layer of sweat that covered him. He looked ready to drop.

Then he turned his eyes on Cullen, and for another moment...it was right. It was right and the practice sword as on the ground and Raleigh all but melted into Cullen’s arms. He sank against him. Cullen could feel his heart pounding, could feel him chasing his breath against his ear, and then felt him sink further down as Raleigh buried his face in against Cullen’s shoulder. Warmth. Wetness. Tears. Tears of frustration and anger and fear. Cullen held him close, watched him through the corner of his eye. He knew those tears. He knew them so well, and he felt his heart shudder in response. Theirs was a shared pain, always had been. And it always would be, it seemed.

This moment, though. This moment standing in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by onlookers who gasped and chattered at their dour Commander hugging an enemy of the Inquisition, felt right. It felt more right than anything had in a long time. It was right to share this pain. It was right to be a pillar of support like Raleigh had been to him years ago. He struggled, often, to know what  _ right _ was. Was  _ right _ not taking lyrium anymore? Was  _ right _ dealing with the ever present pain that he still dealt with from the moment he opened his eyes to the moment...well, sleep evaded him even still. 

Right was this. Right was Raleigh in his care. Right was doing one thing to help another.

\--

He went to him again. Again and again. Anywhere and everywhere save for that damnable War Room that kept Cullen locked away for hours at a time. Samson chased that warmth like it was the Dust he’d craved for years. The song still whispered to him. The song made him want. Only now he wanted something that had the ability to be far more destructive. Lyrium would only kill him. Samson knew that. It would destroy him from the inside out. It would only ever harm  _ him _ . 

This thing that he sought out now, the warmth of Cullen’s arms and the gentle touch of his hands, had the ability to destroy them both. He knew the man was conflicted. He knew Cullen put duty and valor above all things. He knew that welcoming Samson into his arms, into his bed, went against all of that. He knew that it took a bit more every time. It changed them both. Whether it was for the better was only the Maker’s guess, but it changed them both on a level so small and so intertwined with one another that it felt sometimes like it was hard to distinguish where Cullen ended and he began.

Which then piled guilt on top of everything else. Somehow, in his heart of hearts, the last person Samson wanted to hurt was Cullen. He’d hated him for so long, but even after all that he couldn’t bring him down the dark road. Cullen had chosen the light where he had chosen darkness, as always seemed to be the case. After everything Cullen had seen and done, he still chose the light. Samson chose the darkness because it was always easier. 

But it hadn’t felt right.

So he’d gone to Cullen, as he so often had since he’d opened his eyes on his cot after being judged by Trevelyan. He’d gone to his room. He’d climbed the ladder and watched Cullen divest himself of the armor and the fur and the weight of the Inquisition. That never fully left him. There was always that weight that seemed to gather on his shoulders. It was exhausting, even just to watch. But he’d stayed silent, waited until the man’s boots were off and he sank down onto the edge of his bed. Perhaps he might pray as the Cullen he knew in Kirkwall had. He didn’t. He just sat there in silence for several heartbeats.

Slowly he made his way closer. Cullen had to know he was there despite the fact that he made no effort to acknowledge him. They were both silent, both weighed down with something bigger than themselves. It was as though the air in the room was heavy even though the hole in Cullen’s roof had never been patched. It was crushing, the weight, and once he crossed the floor Samson dropped to his knees before Cullen.

Still they were silent. They were silent as Samson wrapped his arms around Cullen’s legs and rested his head in Cullen’s lap. They were silent as Cullen’s fingers worked through his hair and he bent himself nearly in half to cradle Samson closer. They were silent. Silent for a long time. 

This was it. This was right.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison


End file.
